


This Is My Body

by Morgan (morgan32)



Series: Body And Soul [1]
Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Episode Tag, M/M, PWP, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-06-13
Updated: 2004-06-13
Packaged: 2017-10-02 02:26:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morgan32/pseuds/Morgan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Doyle confesses, Angel worries.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Is My Body

Sunset over Los Angeles. Smog in the air, the omnipresent taste and smell of pollution in his mouth and nostrils. Music coming from below, a distant, thumping rhythm like the heartbeat of the city. The sun, blood-red, sinking down toward the horizon.

It was the most beautiful sight Angel had seen in over two hundred years.

As the sun disappeared below the clouds, Angel slipped from his finger the ring that had enabled him to see this thing. The Gem of Amara gleamed in the last of the sunlight. As incredible as the Gem's gift was, it was far too dangerous to accept. Wearing the ring could make any vampire unkillable, even by fire or sunlight.

What horrors might Los Angeles have seen if Spike attained such power...it was unimaginable.

Far more frightening to Angel, because it was entirely imaginable, was what he himself might do with such power...what Angelus would do with it. That knowledge made Angel lift a loose stone from the wall and, without any hesitation, to smash it down on the ring with all his strength, destroying it utterly

He drew a breath in relief. Perhaps he would never lose his soul again. But maybe he would: nothing in his world was ever predictable and everything was dangerous. And nothing was more dangerous than the man standing silent at his side.

Angel took a last look at the cityscape and turned his back on what remained of the sunset. "Well," he said to Doyle, reaching for the humour he still possessed, somewhere, "I don't know about you, but I had a good  
day."

Doyle looked up at him, surprised.

"Except," Angel amended, "for the bulk of it where I was nearly tortured to death."

Doyle grinned at him. "I am _so_ glad you hear you say that. I'd hate to think you get off on torture."

"What would you like me to get off on?" The unguarded words were spoken before Angel realised what he was saying. If vampires could blush, he would have. Afraid of how much he might have revealed, Angel stammered, "I mean...um..."

Doyle, apparently, hadn't noticed. "I mean, I know vampires have some unconventional tastes, but you're supposed to be different." With a quick grin, Doyle turned and headed back toward the stairs.

Angel watched him go, his body sagging back against the wall with relief. _Unconventional?_ Doyle didn't know the half of it. With a small, private shrug, Angel followed his friend into the building. Pictures of his past lovers chased through his memory. Darla, Spike, Dru (now _she_ had exotic tastes), Giles...Buffy. None of that was what he wanted now.

But not even the Gem of Amara could protect them from the consequences of what he _did_ want.

*

Doyle went down the stairs from the roof almost at a run. He couldn't _believe_ Angel had destroyed the ring. It was everything he thought Angel wanted. Why destroy it?

Because another vampire almost had it. A vamp with a taste for torture and a yen for kids. Because Angel was the real deal, and wouldn't risk that happening again. Ever.

Doyle passed the empty office without even glancing at it. He waited at the elevator for Angel to catch up with him. Angel wasn't hurrying. Doyle watched him approach, seeing no sign of sadness or regret. He shook his head slightly. _The real deal_. Doyle needed a stiff drink.

"Got any whiskey, man?" he asked as he opened elevator door.

"Yeah," Angel answered. Doyle hadn't waited for an answer, but he could tell from Angel's voice that he was stifling a smile. So Doyle was predictable. Who cared?

"Top shelf above the fridge," Angel added. Doyle reached up and captured the bottle: good Irish whiskey. He grabbed a dusty glass, half heartedly rubbed it on his shirt to clean it, then poured. A double.

Nothing more was said until they were sitting in what passed for Angel's living room, Doyle clutching his whiskey.

"Doyle," Angel began, breaking Doyle out of his wandering thoughts, "not saying I don't appreciate it, but what you did today...letting Spike near that ring..."

"...Was stupid, I know," Doyle looked at Angel over his glass. He said the words Angel wanted to hear, but he didn't believe them. _Stupid_ would have been letting Angel get tortured to death. "We weren't about to let him kill you. We're your friends."

And there was more to it than friendship. They weighed it up: a simple equation. Angel dead equalled no more hero helping the helpless in Los Angeles. With Angel alive and likely an invulnerable Spike on the rampage, at least they'd have a chance to stop him. The Gem made a vamp unkillable. It didn't make him smarter, or stronger. As long as Angel was alive and fighting, they wouldn't run out of second chances.

Angel wouldn't accept that reasoning, of course. He didn't get it, didn't really see what he was. Didn't understand that Doyle could no more let him die than he could...

"Just don't do it again," Angel said sharply.

That hurt, but Doyle raised the glass in agreement, and drank deep.

*

Angel's eyes were drawn to the movements of Doyle's throat as he swallowed. He was acutely aware of the pulsing vein in the man's neck. He found he was tapping his fingers in time to Doyle's heartbeat. He clenched the hand into a fist, dragging his gaze away from Doyle. The bloodlust was a craving he was used to, and one he was able to fight. Most of the time.

"You two made a good team," Angel said.

Doyle frowned at his empty glass. "You mean me and Cordelia?"

"I think she might be mellowing toward you."

"You think?"

"Sure." It was Angel's turn to frown. Mentioning of Cordelia's name was usually enough to start Doyle on the subject for hours. He was showing a remarkable lack of his usual enthusiasm. "That's supposed to be _good_ news," Angel pointed out.

"Yeah." Doyle rose to his feet, a little unsteadily and headed back to the kitchen to refill his glass.

Angel followed him, concerned. There might be nothing to worry about, though: this wasn't the first time he'd seen Doyle drinking heavily. He seemed to have the fabled Irish fortitude for such things. "Something wrong?" he asked casually.

Doyle turned to face him, draining his second whiskey in a single gulp. "You really haven't a clue have you?"

"You're angry because I destroyed the ring," Angel guessed.

"No. I'm angry because you're as blind as a bat. And I don't mean vampire bats either!"

"Bats aren't blind," Angel objected reflexively. Then, "...what did you say?"

Doyle took two steps forward, closing the space between them. "I said..." Doyle's hand, surprisingly strong, grasped the front of Angel's sweater and pulled the vampire even closer. Before Angel knew what was happening, they were kissing.

It was slow at first, the sensation of mouth on mouth, lips parting, Doyle's breath on Angel's cheek. Unable to resist, Angel raised his hands to Doyle's shoulders, inviting him in as they kissed. Doyle's tongue pushed between Angel's parted lips, sliding over the vampire's teeth, dancing over his tongue and away again while he took a breath. Angel, not needing breath, returned the kiss in kind. thrusting his tongue into Doyle's mouth. He tasted of sunlight and whiskey and...

And blood.

With an involuntary growl Angel thrust Doyle away from him. Too hard. Taken completely by surprise, Doyle staggered backward, falling against the table. The table, unsteady to begin with, tottered under the impact and the open bottle of whiskey fell. Doyle regained his balance, made a grab for the bottle and righted it, then turned back to Angel.

"What the hell...?" he began. Then saw the vampire's face, no longer his human visage. For an instant Angel read fear in Doyle's eyes. A moment later the fear was wiped away by a worried frown. "Angel, what is it?"

Angel shook his head, still fighting the hunger. His fingernails dug into his palm, drawing blood. The pain helped. Slowly, he felt his face and eyes return to something like normal. Only then did he dare to look at Doyle. "You...you have a cut in your mouth."

"Yeah, I bit my cheek when that bastard Spike hit me. What's the...oh!" Doyle, suddenly seeing the connection, swallowed hard. "I'm sorry, man."

"No, _I'm_ sorry. It's been a long day, and I haven't eaten since last night."

"Then maybe you should."

Angel went to the refrigerator without comment. Thankfully, he had a good supply of blood. He kept his back to Doyle as he prepared what he needed and set the pan on the stove. Blood was better warm. Angel wasn't comfortable drinking blood in company, even if it was only pig's blood. But he wasn't to be allowed privacy this time. He turned around again, and Doyle was right there, still watching him intently.

"I can't help what I feel," Doyle said eventually.

Keeping his voice level, Angel said, "I can't help that, either." He knew the words were cruel, but perhaps, just perhaps, it was safer this way.

He saw hurt in Doyle's eyes. Doyle half turned, avoiding Angel's eyes. Abruptly, he turned back. "Fuck you, man. I didn't imagine that kiss just now."

Angel could have stayed cold, and this would have ended right then. For a moment he was tempted: he had, after all, already been down this road once. But he sensed a fragility in Doyle that Buffy never had...Angel didn't want to be the one who broke him. So he took a step closer, yet not quite close enough to touch, and said, "No, you didn't imagine it." It was as close as he could get to a confession. The greater truth still stood between them. "Doyle, you know I can't. You know why. Believe me, you don't want to be around me if..."

"Are you going to live your whole life like that?" Doyle interrupted harshly. "Scared of people, scared of feelings?"

"When the alternative is living as a demon? Yes!" Too late, Angel realised what he'd said. "Doyle, I didn't mean..."

But Doyle was smiling, not in the least offended. "I know what you meant. But it raises an interesting point, doesn't it?"

Angel returned to the stove and poured the blood into a mug. "What point is that?" he asked. He lifted the mug to his lips and drank. The hunger receded almost at once. What a blessed relief.

"How long ago were you first cursed, Angel? About a hundred years ago?"

"About that."

"So, in other words, in a whole century, you got some horizontal action just _once_?"

"No, but..."

"But, nothing! You're just like Cordy - you've both got this idea in your heads that getting your rocks off is what turned you evil. You're both wrong."

Angel drained the mug and set it down. "I know it's not that simple. Are you really willing to take that risk?" His own resistance was weakening fast. Dangerously fast.

"Angel, I'm _desperate_ to take that risk."

Angel met his eyes. There was no doubt whatsoever in Doyle's clear-eyed gaze. Only desire. A desire Angel knew was mirrored in his own eyes. "I'll bet you played with matches when you were a kid."

Doyle gave him a crooked smile. "All the time."

Angel cupped Doyle's face gently with one hand. "You're playing with fire right now," he warned. He bent to kiss him again, gently parting his lips. Once again, he savoured the taste of his friend. The faint taste of blood was still there, but it called forth no demon in Angel now, only a hunger of a different kind. Doyle relaxed in Angel's arms, returning the kiss with passion.

Finally they broke apart, Doyle somewhat short of breath. "Don't tell me you're gonna stop there."

"I should," Angel said quietly. "But, no. Come on. My bed is more comfortable than the kitchen table."

*

Considering his self-flagellating nature, Doyle reflected, there was a definite streak of hedonism in Angel. This bed was more than comfortable: it was luxurious. Doyle lay back, feeling silk sheets caress his bare skin, and wondered if this feeling could possibly get any better. He watched Angel strip off his shirt and caught his breath. How many times had he imagined the body beneath those concealing black clothes? If anything, the reality surpassed imagination; the more so because Angel seemed totally unaware of his beauty. Muscles played beneath the vampire's pale skin as he returned to the bed.

"Planning to undress the rest of the way?" Doyle asked him.

Angel shook his head. "Not yet," he answered, in a way that held a promise.

Before Doyle could ask, Angel's lips covered his again. Doyle melted into the kiss, more than willing to let Angel take the lead. His own desire for the vampire ran deep but was not yet urgent. Angel moved to lie beside him as they kissed.

Doyle was no shy young virgin. He had been married and had had other lovers, male and female, both before and since that marriage. But there _was_ an undeniable element of fear in his surrender to Angel. The vampire's strength was at least three times greater than Doyle's and they were, as Angel had put it, playing with fire. It wasn't the first time Doyle had done something he knew he would regret. But here was the thing: he _trusted_ Angel. More, apparently, than Angel trusted himself.

It was like no first time he had ever known. Angel seemed to know exactly how to please him. Whether it was two hundred years of experience, or simply a vampire's ability to read human reactions, Doyle neither knew nor cared. All he knew was that by the time Angel's mouth closed over his throbbing cock, he was already halfway to heaven.

*

Angel silently thanked the Powers that he'd had the foresight to eat. This would have killed Doyle, otherwise. The taste of the man's cock - the salt of pre-cum mixed with the musk of his extreme arousal - was close, too close to the taste of heart's blood. And that blood was temptingly close to the skin, swelling the tissues of this organ that filled the vampire's mouth. It took every bit of self control Angel had to limit his movements to a gentle suction and to keep his teeth the hell out of the way.

He released Doyle's cock long enough to wet his fingers and returned to his task. He heard Doyle moan in protest when he stopped, and in pleasure when he began again. Doyle's passion was a constant siren's song, urging Angel closer and closer to danger. The temptation only increased when Angel slid his fingers inside Doyle and found him open already, his body begging to be fucked.

With two fingers Angel sought and found the hard swelling within that could give a man so much pleasure. Doyle's physiology was not, of course, entirely human, but he was human enough right there. Skilfully, Angel rubbed at that spot, feeling Doyle's shuddering response in every cell. And all the time, his mouth continued to pleasure Doyle's cock. Angel had no need to breathe, and would not gag as a human must if he took in too much. He could relax his throat and take it all...and he did.

He could feel his lover's climax approaching and redoubled his efforts, his fingers thrusting hard into Doyle's body, his mouth drawing the orgasm from him with loving patience. The hot flood of Doyle's seed filling his throat was the final gift and Angel swallowed, determined to take it all. Sweeter, by far, than blood.

When it was over, Doyle's harsh cries quieted to heavy breathing, Angel crawled back up the bed, taking the other man into his arms.

Angel hadn't even fully undressed.

Doyle, already half asleep, seemed to realise that. His head resting on Angel's shoulder, he mumbled something Angel managed to interpret as roughly _what about you?_ He held Doyle's body closer, His hand stroking the dark hair until he saw the pale eyes close and felt the man's body relax in sleep.

Angel himself lay awake staring at the cracked ceiling for a long time. Yes, he was frustrated. What man, demon or beast wouldn't be? The cold shower would wait until the morning, though. As would confronting the facts of what he had done. Angel had a suspicion that when he woke, Doyle would feel a little short-changed.

But Doyle understod, surely, that there could never be anything more for them than this. Even to go so far had been dangerous. Doyle had offered his body; Angel had come perilously close to taking his blood.

With the thought, the words of childhood ritual came back to him, heavy with irony: _Take this and drink...this is my blood...shed for you that sins may be forgiven._ But for Angel there was neither comfort nor salvation in those words. Only the warning. Only the pain.

He felt the warmth and weight of the sleeping man at his side and smiled regretfully. _No more than this, my love. No more than this._


End file.
